


Vignettes

by everydayatleast



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enjolras Lives, Enjolras looks like a 17-year-old girl, F/F, Friends to Lovers, GOD NO, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, artist Javert, borderline e/R?, lesbian Marius, let's pretend Los Angeles still has a French Quarter, not Enjolras and Marius, plot-significant but unrealized e/R?, they're in love but they don't talk about it, wasn’t sure whether or not to tag e/R
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everydayatleast/pseuds/everydayatleast
Summary: On a June afternoon three years after the barricades, Javert encounters Enjolras again. So begins a summer in which nothing happens and everything changes.(Or: the fic in which artist!Javert goes to 55 Rue Plumet every morning for breakfast and still claims he and Valjean aren't dating.)





	1. June

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellacett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellacett/gifts).



> Sewerexchange 2018!! Filling the prompt of "Javert or Valjean as a secret musician or artist," but also with very brief allusions to my giftee's beautiful concepts of motorcycle club Amis and lesbian Marius.
> 
> Join Sewerchat, friends!

In the early morning, the house at Rue Plumet had an air of suspension to it: the pictures hanging on the walls in too-big frames, the orange raincoat still draped over the coat rack, the shelves heavy with books and potted plants and the ponderous clay animals Cosette had made in fourth grade.

One morning, Javert had indicated the raincoat as he came inside. “That’s been there for over a month,” he observed.

Valjean wiped his hands on the blue terry cloth he was holding. “Good morning,” he replied, pushing locks of white hair out of his forehead. Javert noted the shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t slept well, then. Again.

“You’ll damage your coat,” Javert remarked as he took off his shoes.

Valjean smiled. “It’s an old thing. It’ll survive some wear.”

“The coat rack will break the shape.”

“I don’t think it really has a shape anymore.”

“You should at least put it over a chair, if you insist on keeping it out.”

“Later. My hands are soapy from the dishes.”

“I will,” said Javert, taking the coat off the rack and draping it over his arm. “May I help with breakfast?”

“No, don’t worry about it. You can sit in the kitchen until it’s ready. Today’s paper is on the table.”

“I’ll start beating the eggs,” said Javert, tracing the steps of their familiar ritual as he followed Valjean through the small foyer into the kitchen.

* * *

 “This. What do you think of her?”

It was a Monday morning. Javert put down his glass of orange juice. He peered across the table at the article his friend was holding up, the headline covered by his thumb.

The girl in the picture was young with close-cropped hair and large eyes. Her lips tugged with the hint of a smile as she gazed directly back at the camera.

“16-18 years of age,” said Javert, with more confidence than he felt. “A student. In the paper for some sort of volunteer work or community project.”

Valjean nodded. “Okay. 16-18 years of age, sure. Why a student?”

“Her clothes and haircut appear new and fashionable enough. She must be reasonably financially comfortable. Therefore, statistically, she is more likely to be in school than not.”

“Unfortunate, don’t you think?”

“It is,” conceded Javert, studying his friend carefully.

“And in the paper for for volunteer or community work?”

“Your thumb is slipping.”

Valjean glanced down and readjusted his grip, concealing the headline again.

Javert continued, “As I said, she is young and apparently financially comfortable. So, it’s less statistically likely, though nowhere near impossible, for her to be in the paper for committing a crime. The victim of a crime? Maybe. But if you picked it to show to me, it must be something that caught your interest, and I know children doing community work would do so.”

“Oh, come on,” replied Valjean lightly, reaching for the grapes in the middle of the table. “That’s not fair.”

Javert quirked an eyebrow as he took hold of the stem, helping Valjean tug the stubborn grape free. “So I was right, then.” He tried not to betray the question mark.

“You can’t use contextual clues. That’s against the rules.”

“Of course I can. If information is present, it’s my duty as an officer of the law to use it.”

Shaking his head, Valjean slid the paper across the table to Javert. Javert read the headline:

>  "THE ANGEL OF SKID ROW’: 16-YEAR-OLD COLLECTS CLOTHING FOR THE HOMELESS”

“Wholly unfair,” complained Valjean as Javert flashed his teeth at him across the table. “You know me too well. If I didn’t know you better, I’d go so far as to call this cheating.”

Javert put down his fork. “I do not _cheat_ ,” replied Javert, affronted, while the usual relief loosed the knot in his chest.

Valjean smiled beatifically as he returned to his neglected breakfast. “I know. Which is why I said I wouldn’t accuse you of it.”

* * *

Valjean would always stand in the doorway until Javert had gotten past the gate. Of course, Javert never actually looked back or turned around, but he could always feel when he was being watched, and he always heard the quiet click of Valjean’s front door just as he reached his car, parked at the curb. He wondered to himself what perils Valjean thought he would encounter just walking through the garden. Or perhaps Valjean still feared that one day, finally, Javert wouldn’t walk away from the house. Finally, Javert would turn back around to arrest him. 

Javert didn’t like to think about that.

After leaving his friend’s cloistered, sun-warmed house, he began his half-hour long drive to work. He himself lived just ten minutes away from his workplace. Valjean, however, lived quite a bit further. Javert was willing to make the trip.

He had to drive the local roads for two reasons. The first was to avoid the mess of traffic that was the freeway. The second was that it allowed him greater freedom to select his route. There were some parts of the city that looked like nothing had happened. There were others that were still ashen, crumbling, three years after the barricades, a network of cauterized veins. Javert preferred to navigate around those.

Still, the quiet smoothness of his drive was disconcerting. It gave too much room to his memory of the morning. He tried not to think about the light from the kitchen window or the scrambled eggs, or the odd, disjointed sense of loss he felt now that he was in the cool air-conditioning of his car.

* * *

A slow day, with no criminals to chase across the streets of Los Angeles. His tired muscles were dully grateful for it. He finished his work before six, but even as all the other officers went home, he remained in his office, working steadily through a stack of paperwork. In the middle of signing a sheet of paper, he briefly wondered when he would go home. A pang of anxiety chilled him. 

Here, in the office, he had paperwork to be done: a poor substitute for the warmth of the house at Rue Plumet, but the next best thing, at least. It gave him a full dose of the medicine he craved, dull, soothing routine. At home, he faced an empty apartment and silence. He could go over to Valjean’s, yes—but he had already been that morning, and he didn’t wish to bother his friend more than necessary. With a flick of his wrist, he signed at the X, then turned to the next page. He had the feeling that once he left the sterile coolness of the station and stepped into the dark, deadly still Los Angeles night, he would be leaving behind that comfortable assurance and stability for good.

It was probably just the time of year that was getting beneath his skin.

He scribbled in details of the latest apprehension and signed again at the X.

* * *

VALJEAN: Do you want to come over this weekend? If you’re not busy. X

JAVERT: What would I possibly be busy with?

VALJEAN: Recovering from a busy work week?

VALJEAN: Resting from too much time spent in the company of a silly old man?

JAVERT: You’re not an old man.

VALJEAN: :-)

VALJEAN: But I am silly?

JAVERT: Yes

JAVERT: Saturday or Sunday?

* * *

The weekend Javert and Enjolras encountered each other again was one of the first scorching days of Los Angeles summer.

Valjean’s barbecue neighbor—the family across the street that seemed to throw a party every weekend—had smoke and loud chatter rising from their backyard yet again. As such, cars were crammed alongside every available inch of curb. Javert parked on the next street down and walked over to Valjean’s house.

The heat wasn’t unusual, not by a long shot, but the humidity was strange. It had been like this three years ago, just around this time. The clinging moisture was an uncomfortably physical reminder, like wearing the coat of a dead relative.

Valjean was kneeling in the garden when Javert arrived. Javert was glad of it. Valjean had given him a gate key, but he always felt unaccountably guilty using it, as if he were trespassing.

“What’s the occasion this time?” asked Javert, nodding in the direction of the house across the street. The hedges in front of 55 Rue Plumet mostly shaded it from view.

Wiping his hands on his apron, Valjean approached the gate and unlatched it for him. “Is it the 16th?” he asked, holding it open for his friend.

“I believe so. Why?”

“Someone graduated, I think,” said Valjean. “I got an invitation, but I told them I had a friend to see.”

It took Javert a moment to realize who Valjean was referring to. He frowned. “Did you want to go?”

Valjean gave him the closest thing to sarcasm he was capable of: a thoroughly genuine smile. “Would I want to go to a barbecue party?”

“You’re a hermit,” replied Javert.

“And I’m afraid you’re a hypocrite.”

Javert scowled, and Valjean’s winsome smile grew.

“I’m going to run to the grocery store,” said Valjean, touching Javert’s arm. “I meant to do so before you came, but—” He smiled sheepishly. “I was on the phone with Cosette longer than expected.”

“Of course you were,” snorted Javert. “Tell me about it when you get back.”

“Let me unlock the house for you,” said Valjean, and as he turned away, Javert regretted the loss of his friend's hand on his arm. The light, gentle warmth was a welcome change from the clinging heat of the day. 

* * *

Not ten minutes after, Javert was in Valjean’s living room faintly absorbing the news, waiting for his tea to brew, when he heard a knock on the door.

Whoever it was had a gate key.

Javert’s immediate instinct was to take his phone out of his pocket. There weren’t any messages from Valjean.

Cautiously, he rose from his chair, padded to the door, and opened it. Someone was standing there in a motorcycle helmet, black leather jacket, and jeans.

“Who are you?” asked Javert, gripping his phone.

A gloved hand reached up to pull back the visor. “I was looking for Monsieur Fauchelevent. Although—” A pair of eyes scrutinized Javert. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but don’t I know you?

“I certainly know you,” said Javert, unable to look away. “You survived.”

The boy's eyes widened for just a moment. Then, the boy's expression hardened to resolve, and the resemblance to that figure from the past became complete.

“Excuse me?” the boy asked guardedly.

“You yourself said you recognized me. I was returning the sentiment.”

“I thought I knew you,” the boy replied. “Though I’m not sure where from. What did you mean that I—”

“Enjolras,” Javert said.

As a police officer, Javert had been trained to recognize all the faces of fear. He instinctively looked for the first sign of it to twist it to his advantage. Fear was a look he had never dreamt of seeing on this boy, but there was no mistaking it now.

“You must have the wrong person. I was looking for Monsieur Fauchelevent,” the boy repeated more firmly.

“You will not put him in danger.”

“Why would I put him in danger?”

“Don’t play games,” growled Javert. “I know exactly who you are. Answer me: what are you doing at Monsieur Fauchelevent’s house?”

The boy was silent for a long moment before responding, measured, “I could ask you the same question.”

“Answer me first,” responded Javert, ignoring how heavily the words settled in his chest.

The boy never broke eye contact. “I’m Monsieur Fauchelevent’s friend. I was just passing by and thought I’d come see if he was home.” He lowered his voice. “I would never willingly put him in danger. You were there. You might know that I owe him my life.”

A hot summer breeze lifted across the grass without stirring the boy’s hair, which was plastered to his forehead with sweat. The boy did not give up his unnerving stare.

“You didn’t answer your own question,” noted the boy.

“I suppose you could say I am his friend, as well,” replied Javert, slowly.

The boy raised his eyebrows. “Oh. I see,” Enjolras replied. “That explains some things.”

“What?”

He gestured towards Javert. “You’re alive. I thought, you know, he killed you.”

“I’m alive,” Javert echoed. The boy finally glanced down. Javert stared over his shoulder at the hedges bordering the garden, hoping for the tell-tale rumble of Valjean’s car down the street. “We weren’t friends back then,” added Javert.

“I see.”

Now that the rush of fear was subsiding, the picture was becoming clearer. Who knew even the unruly leader of the revolution would become just another member of Valjean’s herd of lost sheep?

“What’s your name, then?” asked Javert.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name. What you would like to be called now.” The boy glanced away, stubbornly silent. Javert’s mind went incongruously to the time when he and Valjean were still soaking wet from the river, when Valjean had convinced him to come back home with him, his voice tenderly trembling with cold. “Monsieur Fauchelevent is at the market,” Javert said, his tone softer. “I was also visiting him today and we were going to have dinner.” He paused. "I’m a…friend of his, too.” He had already made that quite clear, he realized.

Perhaps the words themselves had no effect, but the change of tone certainly did.

“Oh.” The fear softened around the edges, and somehow, without its sharpness, the boy looked more a child than ever. He brushed a thick lock of hair out of his face. “I go by Michel.”

“That’s on the nose,” observed Javert.

“Lots of people are named Michel,” he replied, and with dread, Javert noticed that his hands were moving to prize off the helmet.

He looked...ordinary, Javert realized with surprise. In fact, it was very possible that if he had first seen Enjolras without the helmet, he wouldn't have recognized him at all. The hair once drawn severely back into a ponytail was now cropped short and dyed a dark brown. It was mussed from the helmet, too, sticking up stubbornly even as Enjolras combed it back with his fingers.

Javert grunted noncommittally at Enjolras’s comment, trying not to take notice of how the uneven stubble somehow made the boy look even younger. He glanced back.

“If you would like, you can wait in the living room for Monsieur Fauchelevent to return. He won’t be more than another twenty minutes.”

He saw the boy hesitating again, and he opened the door a fraction wider. The boy lingered on the threshold before stepping inside.

“Living room is this way,” said Javert, gesturing.

“I know,” he replied. “I’ve—thank you.”

He has been here before, Javert reminded himself.

Javert wasn’t entirely clueless. And he wasn’t untrained in deescalating situations with skittish civilians. He left the door open and deliberately stepped away from it.

Only then did the boy take off his shoes and walk over to the sofa chair—the only seat facing the door, Javert noted.

The kettle shrieked in the kitchen. The boy flinched.

“That’s our kettle,” Javert said quickly, unnecessarily, still standing by the front door.

The boy smiled a little, only with one corner of his mouth. “I know,” he said.

“I have tea,” Javert said. “If you would like tea.”

He was escaping into the kitchen the moment the boy accepted.

It was Javert’s chair that Enjolras had taken. _Valjean’s_ chair, he reminded himself. In fact, it was the one Valjean adored, the beige one with the awful floral upholstery. When had Javert started thinking of that hideous thing as his?

* * *

There was something Valjean did every time Cosette came over. Javert wasn’t about to argue with his expertise in these matters.

“Here,” said Javert, gingerly setting down a tray of grapes, crackers, nuts, tea—he might have gone a bit overboard, he realized.

Enjolras looked up. Javert decided that he should definitely start feeling offended by the surprise this boy kept showing towards everything he did. “Thank you, sir,” said Enjolras.

The boy reached for his cup. He quickly set it back down when it became apparent his hands were shaking.

Just then, he heard the merciful key turning in the lock. Both of them startled, pointedly did not look at each other, and turned to the door.

Valjean came in, carrying two bags of groceries on one arm as he opened the door with the other. “It’s me,” he called out, as he always did. Javert did not miss the boy’s now-routine expression of surprise.

“We’re in here,” said Javert, not without relief.

Valjean glanced over, halfway to the refrigerator. “Oh!” A smile softened his face. “Hello, my boy. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Do you need help with the groceries, Monsieur?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Valjean said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Javert got up anyway and followed silently after Valjean. Valjean nodded at him as he approached, loading his purchases into the refrigerator. “So I see you’ve met my young friend?” 

Javert scowled. “I know who he is. I’m not going to report him.”

That was relief on Valjean’s face, certainly. That would explain the widening smile.

“I know,” said Valjean.

Javert ignored the pit that had been steadily forming in his stomach ever since he heard that knock on the door.

As Valjean continued taking care of the fridge, Javert took the oatmeal, peanut butter, cinnamon, and cereal and went over to stock the higher cabinets. As he put the items away, he gave into his habit of passing a hand over the ceiling of the cabinet. The thick envelope was still safely hidden there. Valjean had many hiding spots for money all over the house; Javert mentioned none of them and anxiously checked up on all of them, and then had to remind himself they weren't even his.

Javert didn’t understand why Valjean used those cabinets for actual foodstuff if he could barely even reach them, but Valjean was a stubborn man.

“I can reach them if I want to reach them,” insisted Valjean one day as they made breakfast, and Javert had to resist an inexplicable smile every time he thought of that.

“What shall we bring him to eat?” asked Valjean, ushering him back into the present. “I just bought some cheese and crackers from the store.”

“I already brought him something."

"Thank you, Javert.” Valjean sounded surprised.

“You never mentioned Enjolras to me,” said Javert quietly, his back turned to Valjean, careful to keep accusation out of his voice.

There was a pause before Valjean answered. “I didn’t know what you would think, is all. I didn’t want to agitate you.”

“I understand,” he said. Why did it still hurt the way it did?

“It’s getting late,” said Valjean. “I can get started on dinner, if you’d like?”

“I should be getting home,” he said to the cabinets.

He heard Valjean turning around. “I thought you were staying for dinner? I bought the curry you like.”

“Next time,” said Javert, again to the cabinets, and very deliberately tried not to imagine Valjean washing the dishes alone.

* * *

Enjolras’ hand trembling on the china saucer. The summer wind barely stirring the soft, fine hair of the boys lying in the streets.

* * *

There are things that bring back memories without warning. The way the air feels when the seasons change is one of them. The shapes of these memories are forgotten; the hard facts are bypassed as one slips entirely into sense memory. 

Javert needed only to stand in the street, to feel the stillness in the air that accompanies the first heat of summer, before a whole host of other sensations came crowding in: a desperate voice echoing through a tunnel, the sweat gathering at his collar, the pavement under his boots, the silence, the silence, the heavy smell of the river after rain, the silence.

* * *

JAVERT: I’m sorry about yesterday.

VALJEAN: That’s okay. We can do another time. X

JAVERT: May I still come for breakfast on Monday?

VALJEAN: What would I possibly be busy with?

JAVERT: Are you quoting me?

VALJEAN: :-)

JAVERT: You’re very rude.

VALJEAN: You’re insufferable.

VALJEAN: X

JAVERT: …

* * *

“You know, you didn’t distress him or offend him in any way,” said Valjean as he mixed the pancake batter. 

Javert stood at the stove, melting butter on the griddle. He had been expecting—and dreading—this conversation from the moment he escaped Valjean’s house the other day.

Valjean continued, “Of course, he was a little cautious around you at first because he recognized you from the barricades. He was also surprised to see you because he didn’t know you were alive. But you told him you were a friend of mine, and he believed you.”

“He’d be a fool to trust my word,” huffed Javert. “I came to him as a friend once before.”

“And back then, you weren’t in my house, out of uniform, waiting for me to come home from the market,” said Valjean simply. He heard Valjean’s moment of hesitation before the man added, “And you certainly weren’t trying to protect me from him.”

Javert was silent for a moment. “Snitch,” he said finally.

“I was touched when Enjolras told me about that. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

Valjean’s voice was soft. Javert grunted noncommittally.

“The boy tried to lead a revolution, Javert,” continued Valjean. “He bet his life on believing change is possible. He wouldn’t condemn someone for a single mistake they made.”

“He’s a fool,” said Javert, effectively ending the conversation.

Valjean didn’t press. “It was nice of you to bring him a snack,” he said finally. “He likes crackers.”

Javert snorted. There was something so ridiculous about cooking breakfast with Jean Valjean and discussing how Enjolras liked crackers.

Valjean sent him a mild, questioning glance, and Javert shook his head, and the moment passed without comment.

“You take over the griddle. I’ll check the batter,” Javert said, wondering at how suffering seemed to make saints of everyone else.

* * *

During his drive to work, Javert thought about how Valjean’s arm had brushed his when they traded places in the kitchen. It would not be unpleasant for such a thing to happen in the garden, or, better, in the street—their arms brushing—and for Valjean to, perhaps…

* * *

In the first days after his recovery, going to work was the only thing that grounded him, the one constant in his life that he could hold onto. Now, however, compelling himself to go was the most difficult part of every day—second only to compelling himself to leave.

He finally forced himself out of the chair in his office at 9:00. The Vietnamese place around the corner closed at 9:15, and he didn’t want to go just as they were closing up. He drove straight home.

When he arrived at his small apartment, he sank quickly into his worn sofa, his muscles aching. It didn’t make sense for his ribs and his legs to be hurting more this time of year than any other. There was no logic in that. And yet…

As he sank down, stuffing fell out from a hole in the upholstery. He sighed and pushed it back in. He missed his chair at 55 Rue Plumet.

 _Valjean’s_ chair, he reminded himself.

He stared at the blank television.

It took all his strength to fight against the strange weight over him, to reach for his laptop and open it. The cursed machine practically roared to life when he switched it on. It was over six years old and the casing gaped wide open.

Around the weak glow of his laptop screen, the vast darkness pressed in with the heavy heat of summer nights.

His fingers faithfully delivered the familiar names into the search engine. The familiar deathless faces smiled back in school photos and news reports. He had done this a hundred times before. The laptop was hot under the soft skin of his wrists.

* * *

But there still was breakfast the next morning. And there would be breakfast the morning after that. At least he had that to count on, every day. If there's anything Javert had come to learn, it was that there was always a next time with Jean Valjean.

Valjean's voice shook with restrained laughter as he read aloud a funny headline and struggled to get to the end of the sentence. That morning, Javert especially noticed the way his friend’s hands were gentle with everything they touched, from the oranges he squeezed for their breakfast to the newspaper he folded when he was finished with it. Those hands were gentle even with the things they used, put away, destroyed.

* * *

VALJEAN: Come over this weekend? X

VALJEAN: Don’t worry if you’re busy. X

JAVERT: Valjean, we’ve established that I’m never busy on the weekends.

VALJEAN: Yes…but I don’t want to pressure you to come over if you’d rather do something else.

JAVERT: Saturday or Sunday?

* * *

The chairs at Rue Plumet were a little too narrow and the table a little too low. Thus, whenever he ate, Valjean had to hunch over, which made him look smaller and a little vulnerable, like a child trying to hide something he was working on.

“How was work this week?” asked Valjean over the breakfast they had cooked together.

“Valjean, I was over at your house every day of the week,” replied Javert.

“Yes, but I haven’t heard about Friday yet.”

“Tell me about your Friday first,” encouraged Javert. “I realized you never finished your story about the gardener.”

Valjean laughed sheepishly. His laugh had always sounded like a fragile thing, like it had forgotten to ask permission. “Oh, that…”

* * *

At work one Thursday, Javert sketched Enjolras' face in the corner of a spare sheet of paper. Javert depicted him as he had to be portrayed: staring directly at the viewer, his hands lifted in the precision of a gesture. But the boy was looking slightly upwards to meet the viewer's eyes, lending a defiant, vulnerable tilt to his chin. It was just the way Enjolras had looked on Valjean’s doorstep that day.

After a moment of thought, Javert drew his hair and stubble as it was now, ignoring the odd guilt at doing so.

A knock sounded on his office door. Javert glanced around, finding that his wallet was the nearest available resource. He tore the corner off the page and concealed it in his wallet as he called for whoever it was to come in.

* * *

One morning at the end of June, Javert gestured at Valjean’s orange raincoat, draped over a kitchen chair. “It’s not going to rain.”

Valjean glanced up from where he was dicing tomatoes, the rhythm of his knife on the cutting board never faltering.

“You never know,” he replied.

Javert rolled up his sleeves, preparing to join him in the kitchen. “It’s Los Angeles.”

“We get rain sometimes.”

“It’s summer.”

“There was one summer it rained early in June. Do you remember that? I think that was four or five years ago?”

"Three years ago."

The steady clicking of the knife on the cutting board ceased. Valjean looked up and met eyes with Javert over the counter.

“It’s not going to rain,” said Javert finally, securing his sleeves and entering the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic, but when Javert opens the door, Enjolras starts singing "I'm Alive."
> 
> (Aaronjolras isn't even my headcanon in this particular fic, but the point stands!)


	2. July

The lemon tree was heavy. The branches bowed under their own weight, as if the tree were offering up its fruit in supplication.

Valjean balanced on the wooden stepladder, reaching and picking the ripe fruit from the branches. Javert hovered below with the basket, thoroughly not enjoying the wide-brimmed hat Valjean had insisted he wear to keep the sun out of his eyes.

“Don’t pull so hard,” said Javert, scowling. “You’ll fall before the lemon does.”

Javert could hear the smile in Valjean's voice, even though he couldn’t see it with the damned hat slipping over his face again.

“You forget that I come from a family of tree-pruners,” said Valjean. “I was one in my youth.” At Javert’s silence, Valjean glanced down. “Oh. I’ve never mentioned that, have I?”

Javert knew he must have read that in Valjean’s file—he must have read it multiple times, in fact—but he never paid attention.

“I didn't know that,” said Javert.

“I was,” continued Valjean. “My father, too. After my parents died, I was lucky to be taken care of by my sister’s husband. But when my brother-in-law also passed, I took up my father’s profession.” He handed Javert another lemon. “I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles,” he said to himself, with the rhythm of someone reciting a mantra.

“What happened to your parents?” asked Javert.

“My mother died soon after giving birth to me. It was a difficult pregnancy." There was no grief in his voice. He had heard more emotion in Valjean’s voice when the man was reading aloud stories from the newspaper. "And when I was six, my father fell from a tree while on the job and died.” 

“And you reassure me about your safety by telling me your father was a tree-pruner?” demanded Javert.

Valjean smiled. “I’m hardly in a tree, Javert. I’m on a step-ladder.”

Javert just grunted in response.

“Cosette loved climbing trees as a kid,” Valjean went on. “She wouldn’t get down. Cosette liked reading those _Magic Treehouse_ books as a kid, and I think they went to her head. There was a big tree in our front yard where she liked to play make-believe. I had to beg her to come down for dinner some days. She called it her castle on a cloud.”

“She must have inherited it from your family,” said Javert. “The tree-climbing.”

He wondered when he had started saying things just to make Valjean smile. In any case, it worked.

“There, Javert, I think a few more is all we’ll need,” said Valjean.

“My mother said she climbed trees as a child,” Javert replied.

Valjean looked down at that. “What?”

“She would go up to pick fruits and not come down."

Somehow, this conversation was much easier when he couldn’t see Valjean’s face. In fact, Javert couldn’t see much of anything, what with the way the damned hat kept sliding over his eyes.

“She would have gotten along with Cosette, then,” said Valjean, and Javert let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. With a few gentle, expert tugs, the last stubborn lemon finally came free. He handed it down to Javert, who put it in the basket. “There. That should be enough, don’t you think?”

“Quite enough,” said Javert.

“Shall we pick some figs for breakfast?”

Valjean was always asking his opinion, perhaps a habit picked up from raising a small child. Javert tolerated it. In fact, he may have grown to enjoy it a little, residual habit though it may be.

* * *

“You had—what’s that science lecture you told me about last quarter?”

“Geology, Papa,” came Cosette’s faint voice through the phone.

“That’s rocks…?”

“Rocks, and also just the history of the planet from a physical perspective.”

It was afternoon, at the hour when the sunlight shone warmest in the dining room. Javert was sitting at the table clipping his nails, and Valjean, of course, was wandering about the kitchen, talking on the phone with Cosette. She had gotten an internship and wasn’t coming home for the whole summer. Javert had been at Valjean's house when Valjean got that call. His smile had been too convincing.

Cosette's internship was in the same city as her girlfriend’s college, Valjean had mentioned casually a week or so later. Marius was staying to work a summer job. Before Javert could say anything about that, Valjean had moved onto another topic of conversation.

“When I was a kid, I really liked digging in the dirt,” said Valjean eagerly to Cosette over the phone. “I don’t know what it was. But my older sister hated it. I always came home filthy. She would scold me and tell me how exhausting it was to be always washing my clothes.” Javert peered over the counter. Valjean was apparently trying to uncap the gallon jug with one hand. Javert wordlessly rose and took the silver pitcher from him and began filling it up.Valjean smiled at him in thanks, wiping his hand on his shirt and readjusting his grip on the phone. “There was one day I dug up this beautiful black stone. When I took it to my sister, she scolded me, of course, but there was a—? What do you call someone who does what your class is called?”

“Someone who…? Oh! A geologist?”

“Yes! There was a student training to be that in our hometown. She was home for summer break.” Javert started the kettle, and as it hissed to life, he took out the box of tea and held up Valjean’s two favorites: Earl Grey and Sage. Valjean pointed at the Sage. “She was nearby and she asked to have a look at the stone I dug up. And you know what it was?”

“What?”

“It was real meteorite.”

“Papa! That’s amazing.”

Javert could almost see Cosette’s smile through the phone. It looked a lot like the smiles Valjean gave him sometimes.

“My sister was ecstatic.”

“How old were you?’

“Young enough that I don’t remember how much exactly she managed to sell it for, but—”

A rap sounded on the door. Valjean and Javert exchanged a glance.

“Hold on, mija,” said Valjean, “there’s someone at my door.”

“I’ll get it, Jean,” replied Javert, walking out of the kitchen.

“There’s someone at your door who isn’t Monsieur Javert?” came Cosette’s faint, curious voice through the speaker as Javert strode to the foyer.

It was Enjolras, of course, still in his ridiculous motorcycle jacket.

“The kettle will whistle,” Javert informed the boy.

Enjolras looked confused. Then, he nodded, glancing away.

“Good afternoon,” said Javert after a moment.

“Good afternoon to you, too. Is Monsieur Fauchelevent in?”

“He’s on the phone with his daughter. I can—I can take you to the living room.”

He opened the door fully for the boy. Javert hastily showed Enjolras to the living room and then escaped to the kitchen to busy himself with crackers, tea, and this time, strawberries.

“Enjolras?” mouthed Valjean as Javert prepared a fresh paper towel for the strawberries.

Javert nodded and set to rinsing the delicate fruit.

* * *

“Thank you, sir,” said Enjolras as he set down the tray. Javert grunted in response. He thought Enjolras looked guilty as the boy eyed the tray Javert had taken him. Javert knew how that felt.

He eyed the room for his options. Enjolras had again taken Javert’s customary seat, the sofa chair facing the door. But it was Valjean’s house, after all; the chair belonged to neither of them. Eventually, Javert settled on the far end of the couch.

Even a simple “how are you” was possibly too heavy a conversation topic. Instead, Javert said, “What kind of bike?”

“I’m sorry?”

He gestured at the motorcycle helmet, which sat faithfully next to Enjolras on the couch.

“Suzuki SV650,” said the boy.

“I see. Is it good?”

“It’s smooth to ride. I heard it was a good beginner’s bike, so I decided I’d try it out. But it was so good that I’ve stuck with it. It never broke down or gave me trouble. The only thing I’ve had to do was switch out the seat for a softer one.”

“I don’t know much about motorcycles,” Javert admitted. “I’ve only ridden the police force ones.”

Javert grimaced as he broke his own unspoken resolution not to mention his police work. Enjolras, however, simply nodded.

“What kind does the police force use?”

“Harley-Davidsons, typically.”

“Harleys are good. You can’t go wrong. Do you know what make?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Javert, feeling oddly guilty.

“Well, they’re good bikes. Probably why the police force would want to use them. Terrible for the environment, though.”

“I see."

The boy still wasn’t touching the snacks. His eloquent hands lay silent in his lap. Javert just wanted the boy to take a damn cracker so he’d be certain that he hadn’t unwittingly broken some law of hospitality by bringing strawberries instead of grapes. He wondered if the boy had eaten all of the crackers last time, after he had hastily taken his leave.

“Do you ride?” asked the boy.

“Not anymore,” Javert said. “But I was a motor officer for a time. That mostly meant parade and traffic duty.”

“I can imagine. A motorcycle sounds much more efficient for those kinds of things.”

“You’re able to weave through traffic so that you get places more quickly.”

“Uh-huh,” the boy said. Finally, he reached for a strawberry.

Javert swallowed down the relief and all the questions he ached to ask.

Valjean emerged from the hallway, pocketing his phone. “Sorry about that,” he said. “My daughter was calling. Hello, Enjolras.”

* * *

It was like this: Valjean would ask Enjolras about how his day was, and Enjolras would respond with simple things: a walk he took in the morning, a book he had read, even a trip to the supermarket. 

Javert knew that Valjean always shied away from social interaction. In fact, even these days, he noted the way the man turned his back and busied himself with his garden whenever a neighbor walked by on the street. He could only assume that Valjean had gotten his skills with one-on-one conversation from raising a child. He made complicated things like conversation seem so simple. Valjean would always somehow find things to comment on. 

Enjolras was an intellectual, educated and raised in privilege, and Valjean—well. Still, Valjean always managed to find something to talk about with the boy, whether it was the closure of a local bookstore or recipes for chicken dinner. Javert never imagined he would see this: the fearsome leader of the revolution sitting on the couch in a soft white T-shirt, his leather motorcycle jacket curled on the cushion next to him, his hands twitching in his lap in a way Javert didn't remember seeing before, talking about—of all things—recipes for chicken dinner. Something clenched in his chest, then, and wouldn’t let go.

When Enjolras rose to his feet and said that it was time for him to get going, Valjean walked with him to the door. Javert, not knowing what else to do, also got up and followed, seeing him out.

* * *

Enjolras’ visits continued through the coming weeks. Javert wasn’t quite sure why it was that he began seeing the boy so often: was it that Enjolras was coming more frequently than he used to, or was it that he himself was now at Valjean’s house all the time?

He didn’t ask Valjean how long Enjolras had been coming before that day in June. He didn’t press Valjean on why he had never told him about the boy. There were questions he preferred not to have answered and answers that he could all too readily guess.

* * *

“This one’s a good one,” Valjean murmured. There were shadows under his eyes again, or maybe it was just the fact that he was looking down at the newspaper. “What do you think of him?”

Across his just-buttered toast, Javert looked at the article Valjean held up for him to study: a headline blocked by Valjean’s thumb and a broad-shouldered middle-aged man with an indistinct tattoo snaking across his arm.

“You’re testing my prejudices,” grumbled Javert.

“And why shouldn’t I? You’re a cop in Los Angeles. Isn’t that the whole point of this game?”

He knew Valjean never meant to wound, but the wide, gaping spaces of guilt opened up in his stomach nonetheless.

“Yes,” he replied. “Well. He seems to be between forty-five and fifty.”

“Javert?” asked Valjean, peering at his face. He lifted his plate carefully to make room to set the paper back down. “Is there something I said?”

“What?”

“You seemed disconcerted by something. Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing,” said Javert quickly. “Come. Show me the picture again.”

* * *

JAVERT: Valjean, before you text me, I am free this weekend and will be free every weekend in the foreseeable future unless otherwise mentioned.

VALJEAN: :-)

VALJEAN: Saturday or Sunday?

* * *

Enjolras’ gaze fell on the receipt at Javert’s elbow. Javert reached for it and put in his wallet before Enjolras could get a good look, but Enjolras was already speaking.

“You draw?” 

“No,” said Javert. “Not well, that is,” he amended. “And only infrequently.”

“You’re good,” said Enjolras.

It was Valjean’s turn to prepare Enjolras’ snack, and Javert's turn to keep the boy company meanwhile. It was yet another routine that they had fallen into wordlessly. In the other room, Javert could hear the low hum of the stove. They didn’t use the kettle anymore. They boiled water instead.

“Sketching was useful as an officer,” said Javert. “I was never good at describing things with words, so it was more efficient to replicate things visually.”

“But that’s more than just replicating things. It looks like you have your own style and everything. Not that I know much about art.”

Hesitantly, Javert took the receipt back out of his pocket and studied it. Enjolras leaned in just a little to see it, too. “You do have a style,” he insisted. “It’s all—” He gestured, presumably to indicate the broad strokes. “Is that the lemon tree by the driveway?”

“Yes,” said Javert with some surprise.

Enjolras touched his finger to one part of the picture. “And that’s a lemon.”

“That tends to be what grows on lemon trees.”

To Javert’s relief, the boy arched an eyebrow. “Yes. That’s what I thought, too, but who knows anymore?”

“Who knows anymore,” echoed Javert.

Silence fell between them, fractured by the soft clatter of mugs against the table and, less immediate, the rumble of cars in the street.

“One of my friends drew,” Enjolras said. “He was really good, too.”

“Which one?”

Javert may have imagined the way his voice wavered. “Grantaire.”

Of course, he had read all the news articles. He knew which one Grantaire was, though only from a photograph and a sentence containing his full name, age, and occupation.

“I remember an inebriated boy by that name,” said Javert, because anything felt more personal than that newspaper article.

Enjolras’ face cracked into a smile. “Yeah. That’s probably the one.” He looked out towards the window, the sunlight tracing his sharp profile, and Javert was still grasping for things to say as Valjean walked in with the tray.

* * *

And in mid-July, Javert finally learned the story behind Enjolras’ survival.

“Where are you staying?” Javert had asked.

“I’m just renting rooms,” Enjolras said. “Across the city.”

Javert nodded. “Are you staying with anyone?”

“Yes,” he said, refusing to elaborate. Enjolras gestured expectantly toward Javert. It was a habit of the boy’s that made Javert nervous, as it was usually the prelude to an unsettlingly personal question or observation. ”I didn’t know that Monsieur Fauchelevent was living with anyone.”

“I’m not living with him,” clarified Javert quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“Then you’re here very often.”

Javert thought carefully about his response, half-studying the loose thread on the sleeve of the boy’s t-shirt. “We’re just friends,” he said finally. “We don’t live together."

“He talks about having breakfast with you,” countered Enjolras.

“And?”

“And you don’t live here?”

The loose thread vaguely irritated him. Even worse was how exposed and vulnerable Enjolras seemed with his close-cropped hair and short sleeves, as if Javert only needed to pull the thread and the whole boy would unravel.

“I was badly injured a while ago,” he said finally. “He encountered me by chance and was kind enough to give me a place to stay as I recovered. I don’t stay here anymore, but he is also kind enough to invite me over sometimes for breakfast or otherwise.”

There was no suspicion or judgment in the boy’s face: only an open curiosity. Or perhaps it was just the light touch of the afternoon sun in his eyes.

“It’s the same with me, actually,” confessed Enjolras. “There were some medics who came to the barricades to see if any of us were still living. They took me away secretly and nursed me back to health, and one older couple opened their home to me. I’m still staying with them now, though. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be.”

That confirmed his suspicions. The boy was alone in the world, relying on the kindness of strangers.

“You’ve got a loose thread,” said Javert.

The boy looked down at himself. “I’ve got—?”

“On your sleeve.”

“Oh.”

Enjolras patted uselessly at himself until he found the offending object. He twined the thread around his finger.

“Don’t do that,” admonished Javert. “I’ll get you scissors.”

“Scissors?” asked Valjean, coming in with the tray and with wet splotches on his shirt from the sink.

“His sleeve has a loose thread,” explained Javert, rising.

“Well, that’s a national emergency,” said Valjean solemnly. “What shall we do about this situation?”

Halfway down the hall, Javert paused and turned around. “You mock me,” he accused.

Valjean settled on the couch next to Enjolras. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied. “Dresser in the bedroom, lefthand drawer,” he added.

“I know,” said Javert, already in Valjean's small, sparse bedroom and looking through the drawer, passing a hand over the thick envelope of money taped discreetly to its ceiling.

He noted, again, the basket of Cosette’s old drawings and school assignments. There was a small grey safe inside it. There was nothing unusual about Valjean having a safe—far from it—but what puzzled Javert about it was that it was nested within Cosette’s things. It seemed an odd place for a safe.

Reminding himself that it was none of his business, Javert retrieved the scissors and returned to their guest and his damn loose thread.

* * *

It took over a month for Javert to shoulder the courage to ask Enjolras what he had wondered since the very first day they spoke again. 

“Why did you tell me you recognized me?” he asked while Valjean prepared the snack.

It seemed that Enjolras caught his meaning right away. “When I’m at Monsieur Fauchelevent’s, I let down my guard. He calls me by my real name.” He hesitated. “And it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen someone I recognized, I—it slipped before I could think about it. I was glad to recognize someone, and it made me clumsy.”

“I see,” said Javert, the cavernous spaces of guilt opening inside his chest. Again, he wondered at how suffering made saints of everyone else; how Enjolras recognized him as a friend before he recognized him as his enemy. 

* * *

“Enjolras never mentions his friends,” said Valjean one day after Enjolras had left. “I do wonder how he’s coping with it.”

“He mentioned Grantaire once,” replied Javert.

Valjean didn’t speak for a long moment. “He mentioned him once to me, too," said Valjean. "Do you know how Grantaire died, Javert?”

Javert stood at the kitchen sink, watching water rise steadily in the metal bowl. “He was shot, I assume.” It was what all the articles had said, anyway. Of course, Javert would not have been surprised if the official report differed from the truth. The familiar uneasiness rose in him at the thought.

“Well, yes.” Valjean sealed the frozen chicken in a ziplock bag and put it into the bowl. “But there was more to it than that. Grantaire never believed in the revolution, you know?”

Javert frowned. Of all the things he had imagined of the schoolboys, he had never imagined them to be without belief. “Then why on earth was he there?”

“He loved Enjolras,” said Valjean, as if that was the simplest thing in the world.

“How do you know?”

“Marius said so.” Javert grew even more suspicious at that, and Valjean noticed. “It was a widely-known fact amongst all the Amis.”

“Were he and Enjolras…?”

“No. Never.” Valjean leaned against the sink counter, and at any other time, Javert would have admonished him about getting the back of his shirt wet. “I actually doubt that Enjolras even felt the same, though no one knows.”

Javert’s heart sank, then. He couldn't fathom why. It wasn’t like it would matter anymore.

“I see," he said.

“He was utterly in love with Enjolras,” Valjean went on. “But he was very troubled. He had a lot of problems.”

“Other than being in love with someone like Enjolras?”

Valjean turned an amused smile on him. “What does that mean?”

Javert raised his eyebrows, even as he considered the risk he was about to take. “Enjolras isn’t exactly kindly to those who don’t believe in the revolution.”

The amused smile turned into one that was wider and more hesitant. “Yes, well.”

Javert flashed his teeth, and Valjean laughed a little. Both of them stared down at the sunlight on the kitchen tile.

“Grantaire had a lot of problems with substance abuse,” Valjean continued eventually. “He was drunk through most of the riots. All his friends were shot. Enjolras was killed last. But when Enjolras was cornered, Grantaire came to him. He could have escaped. But he didn’t. He went to die by his side. Hand in hand.”

Javert found himself at a loss for words. “It must have been great comfort to Enjolras at the end,” managed Javert. “To know that he had won someone to his cause.”

“Enjolras has not forgotten it,” replied Valjean softly.

He stared down at the grout and wondered whether the silence meant Valjean was thinking the same thing. Grantaire could have escaped, but he sold his life to buy the other man’s freedom. Javert and Valjean had both done it for each other.

“I didn’t know you draw,” said Valjean eventually.

Heat leapt up Javert's face. “Snitch,” Javert muttered, and Valjean didn’t press.

* * *

Javert had drawn Valjean only once.

Most of his drawings were sketches on recycled paper which went straight to the garbage. This one had a whole clean page to itself, and Javert hadn't yet managed to throw it away.

The subject had his back turned to the viewer, but he was glancing up with a soft, startled smile, as if he had been deep in some book and the viewer had just entered the room and called his name. Javert almost felt guilty to have this drawing in his desk drawer. It was for the same reason why he had never admitted he was in love with Valjean.

A portrait’s just a portrait, after all: the subject faces you upfront, fully aware that you are there, observing you just as you observe them. This picture, though, was a disturbed moment, an intimate moment that forced the viewer to intrude. It was as if he were asking Valjean to invite him even further into his life, demanding even more than all Valjean had already given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty, buckle up, it's ANGST TIME.
> 
> Also, we are going to collectively ignore the irony of Javert calling Enjolras a snitch.


	3. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Enjolras looks like a seventeen-year-old girl.

The heat of August--heavy and drooping--felt different from the pounding heat of June and July. It exhausted Javert immensely.

Still, in the house at Rue Plumet, there was always fresh fruit and cool shade. And in the open books, the reading glasses on the table, the leftover cups of tea, there was the presence of Jean Valjean. 

Jackets, scarves—there is a way that someone's personal objects become them, assume the shape of their presence. For Javert, it was strongest with Valjean's burnt-orange raincoat, draped unassumingly over the kitchen chair. One day at work, Javert found himself distracted from paperwork, drawing the raincoat and the chair. _Look what’s become of me_ , he thought, returning absently to the report he had neglected.

* * *

VALJEAN: Feeling ill—can we do another day?  

JAVERT: What’s wrong?

JAVERT: Are you all right?

 

JAVERT: Valjean?

 

JAVERT: Jean?

* * *

It was the absence of Valjean’s bewildering customary x that had Javert climbing into his car and barely keeping to the speed limit. This time, he didn’t bother to avoid the cauterized streets, their huddled buildings gutted and exposed.

* * *

As always, loud chatter announced itself from the barbecue neighbors' before Javert even turned onto Rue Plumet. And as always, the curb on both sides of the street was crammed full of cars.

One vehicle, though, was leaving, parked a few houses down. At the sight of it, Javert’s blood ran cold with dread.

He took the empty spot and all but ran to Valjean’s house, the gate clamoring in protest as Javert half unlocked and half forced it open, his hands shaking too much to manage much else. Javert strode through the garden and rapped on Valjean’s door. When a few seconds passed with no answer, he knocked sharply again.

There were footsteps on the wood floor of the foyer, and then the door was opening. Valjean stood there in his green button-up, his hair distressed from sleep. His gaze was both unfocused and terribly intense, like there was something in her eyes fighting not to drown.

Javert stepped inside and closed the door quickly behind him. He walked to the living room. As Valjean’s gaze trailed him, he tested the windows; they were shut. He walked out to the kitchen, swiftly shutting the two windows there, before returning to the foyer, where Valjean stood watching silently.

“Was the police at your house?” Javert demanded.

Valjean sighed. “I told you to stay home.”

“I knew something was wrong. What happened?”

“I’m all right,” said Valjean. “I’m not going to be arrested. Don’t worry.”

“Why were they here? Did they receive a tip?”

“Well, yes,” said Valjean. The panic in his eyes had settled by then. “They just asked me a few questions and then went on their way.” Valjean was collected, cordial, even, and impassive. Despite the heat of the day, a chill went through Javert. It was the voice of Madeleine.

“Don’t use that voice with me,” said Javert.

“What voice?”

“Jean, tell me what happened.”

Valjean held his gaze steadily, and Javert helplessly remembered Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Then, Valjean turned, walking swiftly down the hall and disappearing into his bedroom.

“Javert, come,” called Valjean quietly.

Javert followed him into the small, sparse room. The windows were already shut. Valjean was rummaging through a drawer, and somehow, Javert knew what Valjean was looking for before Valjean turned around with it in his arms.

Valjean sat down heavily on the bed.

“Javert,” he said. “I know you’re not going to approve of what I have to show you. But please, hear me out, all right?”

Javert knelt. “What is it?”

Valjean wordlessly set to work on the combination. The safe clicked open. Valjean placed several credit cards on the bed.

“Valjean…?” asked Javert.

He didn’t reply, his head bowed. He took out a voter registration guide. And another credit card. And a key. Javert picked it up and examined it. A P.O. Box key.

Valjean took out one last plastic card and handed it to Javert.

“What do you make of her?” asked Valjean, resignation in his voice.

Javert stared at it. An ageless blonde stared back at him, cooly anonymous, with a looping, indecipherable signature underneath her photograph. He had seen enough in his career to instantly understand what it all meant.

Javert buried his head in his hands. “Oh my God.”

“Javert, hear me out.”

“Valjean, I have known you to be reckless, but—”

“Hear me out, Javert,” insisted Valjean.

Javert again glanced towards the windows, making sure they were shut.

“I knew I might have to escape with Cosette at any time. So, well, when she first came into my life and we ran away together, I applied for three Social Security Numbers.”

“One for Ultime Fauchelevent, one for Cosette, and one for…” He stared down at the ID.

“Yes."

“You invented another child.”

“You could say that.”

“A child passingly similar to Cosette in age and appearance.”

“Yes.”

“Children are legally required to attend school—”

“Fauchelevent helped run a small private school. He entered her into the roster.”

“The taxes—”

“I paid them.”

“And she has a mailing address, and credit cards…?”

“Everything,” confirmed Valjean.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I knew you would react like this.”

“Like what? Like a rational person?”

Valjean did not respond.Javert stared at the border of the blue bedsheets. Something was breaking inside him, but breaking with no shudder and no violence, inevitable, the way a wave breaks.

“When do you leave?” he asked, not meeting Valjean’s eyes.

He felt Valjean’s gaze on him for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you going away?”

“No,” said Valjean. “No, no. Cosette and I aren’t escaping. The police didn’t come for me today, Javert. They came because of Enjolras.”

Oh. _Oh_.

The relief was warm and welcome, but it stung, the way tears do. The way anger does. It brought Javert to his feet.

“Enjolras has been using you for your charity," he declared, riding the rush of that thing that felt like anger.

Valjean rose, too. “Don’t say that, Javert.”

“Isn’t he aware of how much danger he is putting you in?”

“Javert, this isn’t the first time I’ve done something like this. I know what I’m doing.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“Enjolras will use these papers only to leave the country,” said Valjean. “From there, I’m not sure what he can do, but he has to get out.”

“That’s what this is about? Your whole friendship with Enjolras? It’s about you helping him escape the country?”

“Not at the beginning,” insisted Valjean. “We merely encountered each other on the street and recognized each other. The idea only came to me after the investigation started.”

“This isn’t the first time the police has come to you,” said Javert. Valjean’s silence was his confirmation.

“I can’t believe both of you. You have already saved his life once, and now he’s using you as his ticket to run away?”

“No, Javert,” replied Valjean, his voice rising. “Do you really think he would do something like that? He doesn’t know anything about it. He’s planning to stay here and work change underground.”

Javert openly stared. “You haven’t even talked to him?”

“If he stays here, he’ll certainly die,” replied Valjean, steadily meeting his eyes. “We have to get him out.”

“You said it yourself. Do you really think he would do something like that? He was prepared to die for what he believed in. Heaven knows that not many of us have that courage.”

“And we should just let him be killed?”

“You can’t do this, Valjean,” Javert said, his voice quieter now. “It’s utterly ridiculous.”

"We can't just let him die, Javert."

“Jean, he’s an adult. He’s a fool, yes, but we both know he has made life or death decisions before. Explain the situation to him. Ask him what he would prefer. Is that so difficult?”

“If we can save his life, why shouldn’t we?”

“You can’t keep throwing yourself over for other people, Valjean. Do you think they’ll truly appreciate it? Feel gratitude? They will use you for your kindness, they’ll ruin your life, and they’ll just walk away when they’re—”

“Don’t talk like that to me!” shouted Valjean.

“Then talk sense, Valjean! You want to kill yourself over him without even asking what he wants? Perhaps you should ask people before you decide what’s best for them, Valjean!”

Valjean stared up at him.The words hung heavy in the air between them with the scent of smoke from the house across the street.

“Even now, the police is already investigating you,” said Javert. "You know of Enjolras’ crimes against the government and you fail to report him. Do you know how long you could go to jail even now for aiding and abetting?”

“Then what about you, Javert?” demanded Valjean. “You forget I was a convict.”

“I can never forget that, Valjean!”

Javert knew he had said something wrong the moment the words left his mouth. He didn’t need to wait for the silence that fell over the bedroom swift as a guillotine. He didn’t need to see the words settling heavy and irrevocable on his friend’s shoulders.

“Well, in that case,” said Valjean, his fingers on his collar the only betrayal of discomfort, “I’m sure you’ll be fine here by yourself.”

And then Valjean was walking out of the bedroom, his footsteps dwindling towards the foyer.

Javert was following before he knew it. He was halfway to the door before he came to his senses. Since it didn’t feel right to be in Valjean’s bedroom without him there, he slowly returned to the kitchen. He sank; the hard kitchen chair met him halfway.

* * *

 JAVERT: It’s not safe to drive if you’re upset. Just take a walk. 

* * *

 JAVERT: Let’s talk when you get back. 

* * *

The afternoon was lemon-colored. All their words lay curled like rinds around them among the torn envelopes on the counter and the empty grocery bags by the fridge. Javert’s stomach was too hollow for lunch.

* * *

 JAVERT: What time are you planning to arrive home? We don’t have to talk. I want to make sure you are safe.

* * *

 It took Javert a while to register that the buzzing on the table was Valjean’s phone, left behind in the man’s flustered state. If Valjean’s car broke down, or, God forbid, he got into an accident… 

The whole table buzzed with the phone’s vibration, tingling in Javert’s fingers and traveling up his arm to rattle silently and disquietingly in his chest.

* * *

It was evening. The light from the window was blue and wavering and everything looked underwater. Javert heard the front door click open.

“I’m in the kitchen,” called Javert quietly.

The footsteps paused, but then the man walked in and flipped on the switch. The room warmed with light, just as relief warmed Javert’s chest. He allowed himself a moment just to look at the man. His eyes were tired, but he was safe. He was wearing his green button-down and the summer wind had threaded its fingers through his white hair. Javert wondered what it’dbe like to do the same.

Javert roused himself from these thoughts. “I will leave,” he said, rising.

It only took a small gesture from Valjean to hold him in place.

“Wait.”

Javert waited, and neither of them turned to face the other.

“Do you want to watch TV with me?” asked Valjean.

* * *

As he followed Valjean to the living room, he wondered how it was possible for someone’s shoulders to seem sad. He had often wondered the same in Montreuil-sur-Mer, following after his Mayor to complete some inspection or to be introduced to some dignitary. With the dusky blue light from the windows, a sense of unreality stole upon him, as it had wont to do over the last few years. He wondered at the fact that he was in Valjean’s house, that they were old, that he was still following Jean Valjean.

Valjean settled on the couch. Javert hovered, but Valjean patted the seat next to him. Helplessly, he went.

“What do you want to watch?” asked Javert, his hand twitching on the remote control.

“Your choice,” said Valjean.

Javert turned on the television. Onscreen, a row of soldiers in camouflage crouched in the sand and cocked their weapons. Javert clicked and changed the channel.

They landed on some old sitcom with muted colors and canned laughter. Javert didn’t dare turn to his friend. However, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Valjean’s distracted gaze drifting away from the television.

He heard Valjean shift and draw in a deep breath, and Javert waited for him to speak.

“I’m sorry I raised my voice,” said Valjean.

“I was going to apologize first. There are things I should not have said.”

“Well, I understood your intention. Your point was taken. I would just have appreciated it if you didn’t bring other things into it.”

“Like what?”

“You just assumed that Enjolras was using me for charity. You didn’t want to hear me out.”

“I didn’t know how else to understand the situation,” he said. “You hadn’t told me anything, so I was coming to conclusions from the information I had.”

“You didn’t have to phrase it in such an accusatory way.”

“I won’t speak that way to you in the future. I’m sorry.” The show cut to a commercial featuring a little blonde girl climbing a tree. Javert knew they were both thinking of Cosette. He wondered what she was like as a child. What Valjean was like.

“I didn’t mean that people only value you for your kindness,” said Javert carefully when the show started up again.

“That hurt for me to hear,” confessed Valjean.

“Did you…” Javert searched for the words through the static of the comedy. “Did you think I meant myself? That I only spend time with you because it repays a debt?”

“No, no. No, Javert, never. It was only hard to—it was hard to hear.”

“Is that something you worry about?”

Valjean hesitated. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know.” Valjean didn’t respond. “I just wish you would reconsider this course of action.”

Valjean only hummed in acknowledgment. Javert’s heart sank.

“Do you want wine?” asked Javert.

“No, thank you.”

“Apples?”

“I can,” said Valjean, rising, turning away from Javert.

* * *

The streetlamps had turned on. Their orange glow vaguely illuminated the neatly-trimmed hedgetops. Judging from the lively conversations across the street, the partygoers were starting to file out of the neighbors’ house. Someone yelled a joke insult at a friend; someone on the television said something outrageous in answer.

"How is it possible that they have a holiday or special occasion every weekend?" muttered Javert.

"Who knows?" responded Valjean, still not looking directly at him.

"It is likely that they are an unhappy household," said Javert. "They may be throwing parties to compensate."

"Perhaps you should be writing for them," said Valjean mildly, gesturing at the credits scrolling on the television screen. Javert huffed, unsure of what to say.

Even when he went home that night, Javert couldn’t remember what show they had watched. What he did remember, though, was this.

He remembered that the lights were switched off and the TV was down low, and their voices were down low, too. Or perhaps quiet was only how Javert remembered it.

He remembered that there was a laugh track. He remembered that Valjean even laughed a few times. That was the important part.

He remembered the toothpicks laying unused on the side of the plate. His hands had become sticky with the apple slices. He pretended not to notice Valjean licking his fingers after every morsel.

At one point, Valjean reached for the remote control and turned the volume down. “Was that thunder?” asked Valjean.

“I think it was an airplane passing,” said Javert, listening too. All he heard was a faint rumble in the distance.

“Oh.”

He was aware of Valjean’s arm resting lightly against his. Javert leaned in, just a little.

“One of my colleagues at the station went up to upstate New York in October to visit her sister,” Javert said. “This was many years ago.”

“Oh?” 

“The house was by a lake. She woke to the sound of thunder, but when she went outside the next day, the ground bore no trace of rain. She asked her sister if there had been a storm, and her sister said that it wasn’t a storm, it was the birds. They beat their wings against the ice to catch the last fish before the winter froze the lake completely over.”

Valjean was silent for a long moment. “All creatures have to fight very hard for life,” he said.

The chatter across the street had dwindled down to a few lone voices laughing and exchanging goodbyes.

Valjean finished his last slice of apple and licked the juice off his fingers. “You were cruel today,” he said, almost whispered.

“I was deeply hurt by you,” murmured Javert. “I still am.”

And then Valjean’s head was on his shoulder, and his heart beat its frantic wings against his chest.

* * *

 Javert didn’t know how to reckon with the physical memory of his fear. In those dreadful moments when he thought Valjean was leaving for good, everything had gone silent inside him, like a window had shut and curtains had drawn. How could Javert tell Valjean that three years ago, he had opened that window just a little to hear the rain and traffic in his voice?

* * *

Javert still came for breakfast that Monday.

* * *

“There’s a chance of rain this Thursday,” Valjean said, looking down at the newspaper.

“How many percent?”

“Thirty.”

“Then it very well might not rain,” said Javert. “It’s summer.”

“Don’t be like that,” admonished Valjean. “I like the rain.”

“It’s terribly inconvenient for my work.”

“Hmm,” said Valjean, his eyes returning to the newspaper. “Oh. Here’s a good one.”

The familiar dread sank to the bottom of his ribcage as Valjean folded the paper into a quarter and held it up, his thumb blocking the headline as usual. “Here,” said Valjean. “Tell me about her.”

A middle-aged woman this time, her chin resting on her hands, her red glasses matching neatly with her sweater. 

“This is a foolish game,” said Javert suddenly. “Why do we keep doing this?”

Javert regretted it the instant he saw Valjean’s eyes slightly widening, Valjean’s hands stilling on the handle of his coffee mug.

“Javert?”

"I know you're testing me. You've said as much yourself."

"I was never testing you, Javert. What do you--"

“I just can’t think of anything,” said Javert, more subdued this time. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” replied Valjean, but his gaze was unusually quiet. “Well.” He folded the newspaper and set it down, his lips in a tight line. “Tell me about your work.”

* * *

Enjolras at least had the tact to wait until Valjean was halfway to the kitchen. 

The boy was fanning himself with a folded piece of paper, his face flushed. It was a muggy August afternoon, and each curl clung stubbornly to his forehead.

He leaned in towards Javert and said with lowered voice, “Forgive me if I intrude, but you two don’t quite seem yourselves around each other.”

“How so?” asked Javert, meeting the boy’s eyes.

The boy gestured broadly towards Javert with his makeshift fan. “You’re always looking away from him, for one thing. Is everything okay?”

Enjolras had a way of saying things so directly—almost brutally—that Javert felt compelled to respond in kind.

“We had an argument,” he replied matter-of-factly, still keeping his voice low.

“Oh,” said Enjolras. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Javert knew without the shadow of a doubt that if he told Enjolras the story right then and there, Enjolras would not only decline Valjean’s offer of escape, but also cease visiting 55 Rue Plumet for good. The words sat like razors on his tongue.

From the kitchen, he could hear the faint clatter of Valjean washing dishes in the other room.

“What he does for me,” said Javert, because the words weren't able to stop themselves, “he would have done for anybody. I know it isn’t fair for me to expect more from him.”

Enjolras studied Javert carefully. “Are you in love with him?” he asked point-blank.

“I wasn’t talking about that,” replied Javert quietly.

Both of them listened for the sounds of Valjean in the kitchen. They could hear his knife on the cutting board.

“He feels the same, you know," said Enjolras. "Of course, he never said anything to me, but I can tell he does."

"No." Javert had accepted this fact long ago, but speaking it aloud took all his strength. "He's only being kind," he said. "The same as he does for anybody."

Enjolras spoke after a long moment. "Maybe he does the same things for you that he would for anybody. But that wouldn’t explain why he seems so happy doing it."

Javert wondered then if the loneliness he saw in Enjolras' eyes had always been there. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was just the way Enjolras blinked as he turned away from the bright afternoon sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :/


	4. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter!! The next one after this is my friend's art.

Summer had lingered long that year, its warmth persisting like a long illness. Finally, though, the heat was dropping away. And now that summer was sleeping off its own fever, the air felt unusually chilly. It was September, and the cold autumn breeze hurried the dry leaves along the sidewalk.

Cosette had been home for three weeks. She was flying back to college the next morning. Javert had been relieved that she was around. He now had a reason to avoid the house at 55 Rue Plumet.

“You and your daughter should spend time together,” Javert had said the afternoon before Cosette arrived, just before he left lunch early.

Things had never quite gotten back to normal after that argument in early August. Javert opened his drawer often to look at the drawing of his friend, and invariably closed it again right after, feeling the guilt turn his stomach.

* * *

VALJEAN: Hi X

JAVERT: Hello.

VALJEAN: Are you busy?

JAVERT: No

VALJEAN: I’m so sorry to bother you. Would you happen to have about an hour and a half free today?

JAVERT: Yes

VALJEAN: In the P.O. Box, there’s an envelope from Wells Fargo I need to pick up today, but I already promised to take Cosette downtown today and it’s my last day with her.

JAVERT: I can pick it up.

JAVERT: Is this the P.O. Box from the safe?

VALJEAN: Yes.

VALJEAN: If you have other plans or it’s out of your way, I can take care of it.

JAVERT: I will go.

VALJEAN: I’m sorry.

JAVERT: Don’t apologize.

VALJEAN: Cosette and I have to leave now, but I’ll leave the key in our mailbox, if that’s okay? 

JAVERT: Yes

VALJEAN: I hope it's not too inconvenient for you.

JAVERT: It's not.

JAVERT: Stop apologizing.

VALJEAN: I didn't apologize

JAVERT: ...

* * *

The post office Valjean mentioned was several counties inland, in a dry little town where the roads were wide and empty. 

Javert had to circle back three times before he found the post office on a side street, tucked behind a sleepy DMV. As he got out of his car, the wind blew his hair into his face. Javert brushed the rogue strands behind his ear. It was getting a bit too long and he’d have to cut it again soon.

He went inside the small brick building. There were autumn leaves on the windows cut out of construction paper, veins drawn in thick marker, children’s names scrawled along the edges. Besides the lady behind the counter, there was only one other person there, a man in white shirtsleeves standing by the trash can, sorting through his mail and discarding the junk.

Javert quickly found the box corresponding to the number on the key and retrieved the mail inside. Sure enough, there was an envelope from Wells Fargo.

 

JAVERT: I picked it up. I will leave it in your mailbox.

 

Javert locked the P.O. box, turned, and stilled.

The man in white shirtsleeves was stooping over to pick up a piece of mail he had dropped. Javert only caught one glimpse of the heavy brow and the mouth twisting in frustration, but then again, he had looked at the newspaper articles a hundred times.

The man slid the envelope into his messenger bag and walked back around the rows of boxes. Javert silently strode after him.

The instant they emerged through the glass doors into the autumn air, the man stopped in his tracks.

“Okay, I know you’re following me,” he said flatly, addressing the near-empty parking lot. “If you want to take my wallet or whatever—”

He turned around, and in the clear autumn light, their eyes exchanged silent recognition. It was him, all right. The same face from those articles. Clean-shaven now, his hair gelled back, with clearer eyes and a sadder mouth, but it was him.

The boy spoke first. “What do you want from me?”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Javert replied carefully.

He folded his arms. “If I recall correctly, that’s what you told us last time.”

“I know." Javert looked away. "You, of all people, should know that people can change.”

He felt the boy’s eyes on him, then, limpid and honest.

“I didn’t know you were alive,” said Grantaire quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

“I could say the same about you.”

The boy didn’t speak. Whereas with Enjolras, Javert had sensed fear and defiance, with this boy…he wasn’t sure what it was.

“I survived, yes,” said Javert.

“I can see that.” Grantaire lifted his gaze, and Javert saw nothing in his face but exhaustion. “What do you want, then?”

Javert knew no other way to go about it. Under his breath, as gently as possible, he said, “Enjolras is also alive.”

He had anticipated many possible reactions, but he hadn’t foreseen Grantaire simply nodding.

“I know,” he said.

“What?”

“I know he’s alive. There are a lot of sketchy methods to track down information if you’re not particularly concerned with being legal.” Grantaire eyed Javert. “Wait, you’re not still a police officer, are you?”

“I would like to quit,” admitted Javert, still stunned. Grantaire smiled, though it looked more like a wince, as he glanced over his shoulder again.

“I don’t blame you.”

Grantaire said no more. He scuffed at the ground with the toe of his Oxfords while Javert stood dumbly before him.

“You do not wish to see him?” asked Javert.

The boy sighed. “Honestly? Can I tell you the truth?”

“Of course,” he replied, everything going very cold and very still within him.

“I just want to put this behind me,” he said. “I got this second chance. Maybe I can do something with it.” He glanced over his shoulder again. He talked rapidly, almost desperately. “Lots of people don’t really start out with their careers or whatever until they’re thirty. I have a lot ahead of me, maybe.”

Javert nodded silently.

“Like. I think I can try for something more.” He lowered his voice, though he kept talking faster and faster. “That day in June three years ago—I just nearly threw my life away right there. For a cause. A cause? What cause? Did anything change?”

He gazed at Javert, but the mournfulness in his eyes had sunken and turned into something else. It made him look a lot older than he was. “I figured I’d at least try to put myself first for once,” he said. “Try to see if I can live a normal life, whatever that means to people. They always idealize the suburban middle-class life. Maybe there’s something to it, huh?”

Javert was unaware of what he was going to say until the words left his mouth. “You can’t leave him.”

Grantaire smiled crookedly, and not without regret. “I already gave my life for him once." 

Javert's heart dropped.

The wind gusted, bringing a bright chill that lit him up with fresh cold. Grantaire hugged himself.

“Do you have your phone with you?” asked Javert, suppressing his shiver.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, why?”

“In case you change your mind, I thought I would give you my number.” He hesitated. “Or just if you’d like any help with anything.”

The boy’s gaze pressed against his, but several moments later, the device was in Javert’s hand. Carefully, he input his number with his name, trying not to betray the shaking of his fingers.

“Thank you,” said Grantaire, pocketing his phone again, hugging himself again.

“I wish you the best of luck,” Javert said.

Grantaire didn’t meet his eyes. “Thank you. You, too. Thank you.”

Javert allowed himself one last look at the boy: the gelled-back hair, the sad mouth, the honest eyes. Then, nodding once, he strode past him towards his car at the back of the lot.

His hands fumbled for his keys in his pocket. He raised the fob and unlocked the car. He hurried the last few steps and climbed in, reaching to close the door.

“Wait!”

Javert glanced back. Grantaire was striding quickly towards him across the lot.

He waited as the boy reached him, half out of breath. Grantaire's lips half-formed the question several times.

"What?" Javert asked finally.

“What’s he like now?” asked Grantaire finally, his eyes not quite meeting Javert’s. "Enjolras?"

“He’s—” began Javert. “Enjolras is—"

And then Javert remembered that one day in his office in June. He reached into his pocket for his wallet and opened it, rifling through its compartments.

“Oh, no, I don’t want your—”

The words stilled on Grantaire’s lips as Javert wordlessly handed him the corner sketch of Enjolras.

He watched the paper tremble in Grantaire’s hand.

* * *

JAVERT: What time are you taking Cosette to the airport?

VALJEAN: We’re about to leave. Do you need anything?

JAVERT: I just wondered if you wanted to spend time together this afternoon.

VALJEAN: I would love to.

VALJEAN: I'll talk to you later, okay? 

JAVERT: Yes. I'll see you soon.

VALJEAN: X

* * *

 “I’m in here,” Valjean called.

Javert went down the hall. Valjean was sitting in bed, resting against the headboard, early afternoon sunlight in his eyes as he looked up at Javert.

“Are you ill?” asked Javert.

“Will you deny an old man the pleasure of reading in bed?”

“I was only asking. And you’re not an old man.”

“You flatter me.”

“Don’t accuse me of such a thing,” said Javert. Only when Valjean motioned at the desk chair did Javert cautiously, hesitantly take a seat.

“How is Cosette?” asked Javert. This was always a safe subject.

“She’s doing very well. The company invited her to come back again next year. I think she didn’t want to leave that job.”

“But she was glad to spend time with you, I’m sure.”

“Yes.” His tone betrayed nothing.

“She still needs her father,” said Javert, though that argument had been fought and won a long time ago. There was no point in dragging that out again. “I regret that I wasn’t able to see her."

“She regretted she wasn’t able to see you, too. I said that she might see you during Thanksgiving Break.”

“Is she coming home for that?”

“She has her plane tickets already.”

“Good.” Javert nodded. “Good.”

Valjean smiled a little, then, though it wavered as if it were just a trick of the light. “Yes.”

It could have died there; a stillness and silence gently beckoned and threatened before Javert pushed against it and rose from his chair and walked deliberately to Valjean’s bedside. Valjean glanced up at him in surprise.

“I just wanted you to know,” he said, hovering over Valjean. “When I said that I could never forget that you were a convict, I didn’t mean—”

“There’s no need to explain, Javert,” said Valjean, though the afternoon light had left his eyes, and he wasn’t looking straight at Javert anymore.

“Let me,” said Javert. “I only meant that—that I still feel the guilt every day for what you’ve had to suffer, and if the authorities found you and you were made to suffer all that again—” Javert swallowed down the lump in his throat, refusing to look at Valjean. “I don’t know what I would do.”

He felt Valjean’s stare. He didn’t look up for fear of betraying the sudden tears in his eyes.

“Javert,” he said, his voice touched with…surprise? Fear? “Javert.” His voice gentled, humming like rain. “Sit by me?”

Javert nodded stiffly. He sat down on the edge of the bed, half turned away from Valjean.

He felt the mattress dip as Valjean moved closer to him. “Don’t you know by now that there’s nothing I blame you for?” asked Valjean.

“I can’t believe that,” said Javert, staring down at his own hands folded in his lap. “I know you say that, but I. I can’t.” He drew in a breath. “You didn't even trust me enough to tell me about Enjolras. You didn't tell me about the investigation. I—I cannot demand anything of you that you do not feel, and I have no right to ask this of you in the first place, but it hurts to realize how little you trust me.”

He felt the mattress dip again and the springs creak. Before Javert could register what was happening, there were fingers cupping his jaw, tilting his head up. Valjean was kneeling in front of him, his eyes clamorously bright.

"Javert," he said. "Don't you understand why I didn't tell you?"

Javert stared back at him silently. Valjean's eyes were so loud.

"Don't you understand that I knew what you were going to do?"

"You thought I was going to turn the boy in," managed Javert.

"No, Javert. Do you really think I know you so little? I knew you would protect me and the boy, no matter the consequences. No matter what it meant for your career, your safety, your own life. I knew you'd be in torment having to choose between your heart and the law again, but I also knew what you would choose. That’s why I didn’t want to put you in that position. I wanted to spare you from having to make that choice."

“I am planning to resign," replied Javert, not knowing what else to say, unable to look away from Valjean's eyes.

"If that's what you want."

It was Valjean who glanced away first. He rose to his feet, and Javert rose, too, moving aside so that Valjean could return to bed. 

Settled in his old spot again, Valjean glanced up at him with pursed lips and uncertain eyes, the way he always did when hesitating to ask for something he wanted.

"What is it?" asked Javert.

"Come join me?"

Javert did.

* * *

Valjean was still reading. It was late evening. The sky was already darkening. The air inside the house was cold.

Javert burrowed his feet into a wrinkle in the blanket. Not taking his eye off his page, Valjean shifted his weight off the blanket and tugged it over himself. Javert did the same, drawing the blanket closer. Valjean had part of the comforter tucked underneath him, and as such, it didn’t reach all the way over Javert. Javert moved towards the center of the bed instead, letting the now-ample fabric settle loosely around his body.

Valjean put the book down on the nightstand. He took off his reading glasses and rested them on top of the book. He lay back and didn't say anything.

Drawing on the last of his courage, Javert turned towards him, curling up. As his eyes fell shut, he rested his hand on the crook of Valjean's elbow. He was allowed only a single moment of exquisite terror before Valjean's arm was sliding around him and Valjean was pulling him closer and he was laying with his head on Valjean's chest, cradled in Valjean.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow?" asked Javert with what little breath he had regained. "What we'll do about Enjolras."

"Yes. We'll figure something out."

"No more secrets, Jean."

"No more secrets. I swear to you."

Javert let his fingers curl open on Valjean's chest. 

* * *

Valjean's breathing was beginning to fall into a slow cadence. In the warmth of Valjean's arms, Javert felt the pleasant heaviness of sleep begin to press down on him, too.

“I ran into Grantaire at the post office yesterday,” said Javert into the darkness, his voice thick with drowsiness.

He felt Valjean shift under him. “Grantaire?" His voice, too, is slow from sleep. "The boy from the barricades? The one who…”

“Mmm.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Javert nodded against Valjean's chest. “He said he doesn’t want to see Enjolras.”

Outside, the crickets cried high mourning. “That never works, you know?”

“What?”

“You can’t run away the past," murmured Valjean. "Not forever.”

“I suppose,” said Javert. “I thought perhaps he might change his mind someday, or need help of any kind, so I gave him my number.”

Valjean squeezed the hand resting on his chest. “Good."

Javert drew in a deep breath. “Jean. We’ve both got some years behind us. But if you find that—if you—.” He broke off. “It’s not too late for you to start a new life, if that is what would be good for you.”

He felt Valjean's breath in the way it stirred his hair, in the rise and fall of Valjean's chest. “I know that," Valjean murmured. "And I already have a new life. I am with you.”

Javert turned the words over in his head. Somehow, in the quiet darkness of Valjean's bedroom at 55 Rue Plumet, they made sense.

He tilted his head up and quickly kissed Valjean's cheek as he compelled himself to say what had been on his mind all day.

“I’m very glad you chose to stay,” he said, closing his eyes.

Valjean's careful, hesitant fingers began running through his hair. “As am I."

* * *

In the early morning, the house at Rue Plumet had an air of suspension to it: the pictures hanging on the walls in too-big frames, the orange raincoat still draped over the kitchen chair, the shelves heavy with books and potted plants and the ponderous clay animals Cosette had made in fourth grade.

This morning, though, was a little different.

"Javert, look," exclaimed Valjean joyfully as he peered out the kitchen window. 

Javert came to join him, his side pressing against Valjean's as he arrived at the sink counter. "What?"

"It's raining."

Javert peered through the glass. It wasn't much, but indeed, a few droplets gleamed on the pane, joined by a few more as he watched.

"Well," said Javert, turning. "You've been prepared for this all summer. We might as well make use of it."

Valjean's eyes followed him curiously as he walked out of the kitchen. Javert lifted the orange raincoat from the chair, shook it out, and held it out to Valjean.

* * *

In the foyer, Valjean got stuck in the coat as he tried to pull it on. Javert sighed and helped him, untwisting the garment, holding out the sleeve.

“You still haven’t learned how to put on a coat properly,” Javert chided, unnecessarily buttoning it up for him, as well.

Valjean smiled. “Can you believe I was a mayor?”

“No,” muttered Javert. “I still can’t bloody believe it.”

That earned him a laugh from Valjean. He glimpsed his own relief mirrored in Valjean's eyes. As he fastened the top button, Javert gave into impulse and leaned forward and pressed a soft, clumsy kiss to Valjean's lips. 

"Come," said Javert, turning away, blushing, holding the door open to the morning touched by rain. "Lord knows you've been waiting for this long enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this slice-of-life that went on a little too long!! <3 Hope you like it, ellacett!!!!
> 
> 90% of the struggle in writing this fic was figuring out how best to sequence, arrange, and shape all the little bits and pieces I had. As such, there's a TON of material that didn't make the final cut, including Valvert first date, motorcycle Amis, Javert finally showing Valjean his art, and butch Cosette (another prompt that was given to me)! And, of course, U-Haul lesbian Marius, who originally had her own subplot. I'm not sure I can make it all cohere into a neat storyline, but I can definitely post extracts at some point :) 
> 
> Comments make my heart sing!! Please let me know what you thought. Thank you so much again for reading!
> 
> In keeping with the artsy theme of "Vignettes," click to the next chapter for the lovely readingglasses!Valjean my friend AnonymousFan drew!!


	5. ART!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little extra thing: my multi-talented friend AnonymousFan did a glorious drawing of readingglasses!Valjean and I am YELLING!! Isn't he precious?! ♡
> 
> There's more Valjean where this came from--be sure to check out AnonymousFan's Ao3 account!

He deserves the world and so does Javert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future projects: AnonymousFan, TheLifeofEmm, and I may or may not be working on a post-Seine Valvert musical using the melodies of the original, so...be on the lookout for that ;) 
> 
> (We just finished Act I and we're also recording it. Never dreamed that this was a phrase I'd ever be saying, but: I'm playing Valjean!!!)
> 
> Thank you again for reading my first fic in the fandom!! Comments would be so very appreciated!


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